Not Enough
by idreamofdraco
Summary: "I've got a proposition, for you," Draco started. "And seeing how you took delicious advantage of me in my drunken and vulnerable state last night, I don't think you have any right to say no." DM/GW. EWE. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

_June 9, 2010  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters, settings, and terminology belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm not making any money from this.  
Notes: Thank you to Iridescent-Dreamer for beta-ing this for me. This is a response to Lia's Avant-Garde Challenge on the DG Forum. Requirements for this challenge are listed below this chapter._

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Chapter 1

Ginny saw him as soon as she walked into the pub, and, curiously, instead of the feelings of hate and revulsion she would have expected to feel upon seeing him, she was overcome with the urge to drop right into his lap, steal his tankard and have a chug of whatever he was drinking. He looked completely wasted reclining against some witch whose robes seemed to have fit her best when she was ten years younger, his ash blond hair in disarray from manicured fingernails raking through it, his eyelids heavy and half-closed—or half-open, if that's your thing.

It really didn't have anything to do with him. While she admitted to herself that he looked goddamn sexy all drunk like that, it wasn't because _he _himself was sexy. She just had this hole in her stomach and it ached like a bitch and she wanted to fill it up with something, and that something, she had decided earlier that evening, would be alcohol. But now that she had seen him, she wondered if the ache could be fixed by something else, and maybe he'd be the right person to fix it, because she did in fact hate him, so after tonight they wouldn't have to pretend that they meant anything to each other.

He looked like he was having such a goddamn good time, with his slutty girlfriends and his alcohol-induced smile, and she was sitting at the bar drinking by herself, as miserable as an Acromantula without legs, or some other shit like that.

Ginny kept looking back at his booth where he lounged with his harem, watching with disgusting fascination as one witch kissed his face and another rubbed his chest while another's hand crawled up his thigh. She tried to ignore the way her blood began to pound in her veins, in time with her heartbeat but completely and embarrassingly different from it. In her anger, she took a large gulp of her firewhisky and choked, and then, because she was deranged, she looked back at him again and saw something she hadn't noticed before.

He wasn't even fucking _conscious _anymore and those women were attacking him like vermin on carrion. And the sad part about it was that she was _turned on_ by it. But she wasn't so turned on that she could ignore the blatant illegality of their actions, so, like the upright little Weasley her parents had raised, Ginny threw some money on the bar to pay for her drink and stormed over to his booth in a cloud of righteous indignation. The vultures—whoops, she meant witches—didn't remove their lips from his lifeless body until they felt the cold blast of her glare.

"Can we help you?" the blonde one with the possessive grip on chest said with supercilious, albeit drunken, coolness.

"No, you can't. I'll just be taking this," Ginny replied, grabbing Malfoy's wrist and tugging until he was in her arms, draped over her body. The witches were nearly as far gone as Malfoy and had no strength with which to constrain him or fight her. They tittered with displeasure at the loss of their toy but consoled themselves by going after each other's clothes instead.

Fucking bimbos.

Ginny Apparated with Malfoy back to her flat, where she laid him carefully on her sofa. The alcohol that she had managed to drink that night started to catch up with her, making her head go empty and squishy and directing her thoughts in all kinds of dizzying circles.

Just as they'd been doing since she'd entered the pub earlier, her eyes kept drifting back to Malfoy on the sofa. His fair hair fell across his forehead, untidy but fetching in his sleep. The fire from the fireplace glinted off of his eyelashes, which sat on his pale cheeks, drawing her attention to how very different his looks were from a certain other wizard she didn't dare to think of.

But it was too late, because he was already in her head, and the alcohol she had consumed made it harder for her to lock him up in her mind where she didn't have to face him.

"You're so stupid," she said to Malfoy's prone body. "Why the hell do you need more than one witch to satisfy you? What's wrong with one? They are sluts, every last one of them. Goddamn fucking sluts. They don't want you. They want your fame. And your money. You don't mean a fucking thing to them. Not a thing!"

But he had meant something to her, Harry had. Why hadn't she been enough for him?

By now, tears had started falling down her cheeks, but Ginny couldn't have that, oh no. She didn't want to think of Harry sodding Potter. She didn't want to think of Malfoy's whores fighting over his unconscious body. She wanted to fill up this _fucking hole _ripping her body into two halves from her middle.

So she stood up from the armchair she had fallen into and dropped to her knees in front of the sofa. Her fingers, listening to the sweet words of Mr. Ogden—but that was okay, because Ginny wanted someone else to be telling her what to do anyway—stroked the soft skin of his cheek and gently moved his hair off of his forehead. She hadn't expected his skin to be so smooth, and she didn't know why this interested her so much. Her fingers continued their stroking as her head lowered to his, and before she knew it, their lips were touching.

But it wasn't enough.

No. Not enough. So she moved her lips, slowly, just a little. Her free hand, the one that wasn't possessed and caressing his face, rose up to his chest to steady her and keep her from falling, and all the while her lips moved over his, willing his to move with her.

And then they did. And then there was a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her down with such force, she thought she would fall into him. Lips moved and tongues and teeth and hands and fingers, and then she was straddling him and she'd lost her shirt, somehow, and he'd lost something too, but Ginny didn't know what it was.

It was fast and hot and just what the hole in her stomach needed, because with every kiss, every touch, another brick covered it up, another stitch kept it closed.

It felt so fucking _good, _so goddamn good. Even his breaths, quick and desperate and hot on her skin, were like a salve, healing her wounds, making her whole again, sealing up the part of her where that chunk of Harry used to reside.

He stopped, staring up at her with shiny eyes, and she wondered if he was going to remember this in the morning and wondered if she would be filled with regret. Mr. Ogden told her she wouldn't regret a goddamn thing and that she needed to stop wondering about shit and just fuck him already. Malfoy's lips parted and Ginny leaned down to kiss him again, but his voice stopped her cold, froze the alcohol in her system so that she was thinking clearly for just one second.

"You're beautiful, you fucked up woman," he said. She wanted to laugh—uproariously and in the most obnoxious way. She really was fucked up. She was just as bad as the vultures she'd stolen him from.

But his words weren't enough to make her stop. No, they weren't, because he'd called her beautiful and it had been so long since someone had. So she disposed of her bra and crashed her lips to his, as his hands reached up to roam her skin, across her collarbone, her breasts, her stomach. Right over the hole, holding it closed.

None of it was enough, so they didn't stop until exhaustion paralyzed their muscles and the sofa welcomed their slumber with open, comfortable arms.

* * *

When Draco woke up, he wished he hadn't. Sunlight burst in through a window and seemed to aim straight for his head, blinding him and making his brain throb with so much pain he wished he would die.

But then he found a naked red-headed woman draped over him and remembered the previous night—well, parts of it, anyway—and he didn't quite want to die just yet, because what he recalled of the night's activities was well worth a headache that felt like the Cruciatus.

The woman on top of him stirred and lifted her head, a grimace twisting her face into an expression of intense discomfort. To his surprise, it did not bother him to realize that she was a Weasley; only intrigued him more and made him wonder what had happened last night that had led to their current positions.

"Who turned on the goddamn sun?" she snarled, grasping her head. "Shit."

"I don't know but they need to fucking _turn it off_," Draco replied, wincing at the loudness of her voice.

"Fuck," they said at the same time.

She pushed herself up off his chest, giving him an eyeful of her breasts, which he stared at as if for the first time, but he knew it wasn't, because he remembered touching and licking and kissing them the night before. Draco didn't try to move; when he did, his head cracked down the middle and exploded several times per second, so he lay still as she gently repositioned herself until she was sitting on his knees.

He took this time to look around the flat and was surprised by how nice it was, considering she was a Weasley. Then he remembered—how could he have forgotten, really?—that she had been dating Potter since they'd left Hogwarts and the niceness of the flat made sense.

"Looks like Potter pays you well for your services, eh?" he said as he admired the brickwork of the fireplace.

She didn't say anything, but stood up and started gathering her clothes, her back facing him the whole time. It occurred to him, as she snatched clothing from the ground, that she was angry now, but what the hell did she have to be angry about?

"Hey, what's got your knickers in a twist?"

"If you'll notice, I'm not wearing any damn knickers," she snapped.

"Oh, I noticed." He eyed her bum as she straightened up and stormed into another room—to get dressed, he presumed. As soon as the door shut soundly, if loudly, behind her, he jumped up and started plucking his clothes off the floor as well.

When she reentered the room ten minutes later, Draco sat impeccably dressed in his wrinkled clothes, staring into a fire he'd taken the liberty to construct in the fireplace.

"You're still here?" Weasley asked dully.

"Of course," he replied. "It'd be rude to leave without notice, now wouldn't it?"

"You're giving me a lesson about rudeness?" she said in disbelief. "Has the world ended since I woke up this morning?"

"It's afternoon, actually." She rolled her eyes, but in the spirit of camaraderie—maybe—she reclaimed her seat in the armchair rather than toss him out on his arse. "Your language has improved."

"What?"

"You aren't cursing nearly as much as I remember you doing last night, or even fifteen minutes ago."

For a woman who could curse like a naughty jobberknoll, she blushed impressively. It pleased him to see it for some reason. He'd managed to knock her off the stiff stool she stood on, staring down on this situation with cool objectivity, and force her to feel embarrassment for what they'd done. Draco wasn't embarrassed at all. He couldn't even remember the night in its entirety, and even if he could, what did _he_ have to be embarrassed about?

"Why don't you tell me how I came to be here and participate in sexual intercourse with one such as yourself, hm?"

Her face and ears grew redder, which Draco thought was a rather fetching look on her, but as if to make up for her mortification, her eyes narrowed into slits. He met her glare with an innocent look of curiosity that he knew she couldn't compete against.

She blinked first, sighed, and looked into the fire.

"You were drop dead pissed and the vultures you were with were all over you like... like..." Her words faltered and her hands waved in the air as if trying to catch an acceptable simile. Draco stared back at her blankly, causing her to sigh again, this time in exasperation. "Well, I couldn't let them do that, could I? You were unconscious! That's... that's wrong, that is!"

"So you thought it would be a better idea to whisk me away to your lovely abode and have me for yourself?"

"No! No. No, I... That was an accident, really. I... Stupid of me, honestly. I was thinking of something else and you were here and... I never expected you to respond."

"I see," he said slowly, because it was obvious that she was worried and saying it slowly and calmly as he had made the two words sound much graver than he meant them. "No worries though. Whether it was you or the three harpies who had accompanied me yesterday evening, I would have woken up today a very satisfied man. Except for this headache."

"I see," she answered. Only, her "I see" was indeed meant in the gravest way imaginable, if the crease in her eyebrow and the dropping of the corners of her lips were anything to go by. Draco held his breath and waited for a typical Weasley explosion of some sort, but none came. She stood up, smoothing the material of her pants, and turned toward the kitchen. "I'm sure you can show yourself out."

But Draco didn't make a move to leave. He crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back against the comfortable cushions of the sofa, looking around once again at the posh décor.

He always was one for pushing buttons. "Where is Potter, by the way?"

She raced back to the doorway, a livid expression on her face and in her posture.

"I told you to get out!"

"Actually, you didn't."

"_What the hell, Malfoy! _Why do you have to fucking dig and dig and dig? Just leave it alone and get out of my flat!"

She pointed at the door savagely, her face splotched, not just from her anger but from the tears that had begun to fall down her cheeks as well. Draco became serious at once; he knew he had crossed a line, and maybe he should have just left like she wanted him to, but having grown up with Pansy Parkinson as a friend, he knew that some things just needed to be talked out. Her actions the previous night spoke of a desperation that he recognized now that he could see some real emotion on her face, and she wouldn't feel any better until she faced the root of the problem.

He stood up slowly, and she lowered her arm, but her chest still heaved with sobs she tried valiantly to suppress.

He said calmly, "Just tell me where Potter is and I'll go."

"Fuck you, you pointy little bastard. Just fuck you!"

The words "you already did" were on the tip of his tongue, but now was not the time. His arms were suddenly full of raging, crying woman and it took all his strength just to keep her from strangling him.

"Where is he, Weasley?" Draco was almost afraid that she had killed him.

"_I don't know!_ He left, okay? He left me for someone else!"

She finally stopped trying to wrap her fingers around his throat and just collapsed against him, crying in earnest. It took every ounce of his decency not to sneer at her, it really did. What he wanted to do was rejoice. As it turned out, the great Harry Potter was a snotty human being, and a Weasley got knocked down a peg. He wanted to take advantage of his position in this situation. He wanted to sneer and make fun and laugh and smirk and do all the things he did best when looking down on people.

And he would have, too, if he had been walking down Diagon Alley and heard the latest gossip. If instead of sleeping with her, he'd met her on the street as she'd done some shopping. It would have been his pleasure to rub it in her face, to make sure she hadn't forgotten what Potter had done.

But they weren't strangers anymore. True, he didn't have a clue what her first name was, but he had seen every centimeter of her body, mapped it with his hands, marked it with his lips, and he'd also borne witness to the very unattractive tears of her pain.

Besides, she'd been a damn good shag—as far as he could remember—and if he ever hoped for a repeat, it would be unwise for him to belittle her now.

He patted her hair gently, and when her tears had slowed down and her sobs were few and far between, he lifted her chin and then wiped the wetness off her cheeks.

"There. Better?" She nodded, her eyes darting to the floor. Her face reddened in that fetching way that he had decided he liked. "Potter is an idiot, if that makes you feel any better. No? Damn. Thought that'd work."

Her lips quirked up into the tiniest of smiles.

And then Draco got the greatest idea he had ever had. There was a way for Weasley to get what she wanted—either to get Potter back (Draco shuddered) or to get back at him—and for him to get what he wanted—another shag with Weasley.

He sat her down on the sofa. "I'll make some tea," he said, giving himself permission to use her kitchen. When he came back a few minutes later with two cups of Earl Grey, she had dried her eyes and wiped her nose, and now looked much calmer.

"I've got a proposition, for you," Draco started. He took a sip of tea, glancing at her through his eyelashes as she eyed him warily. "And seeing how you took delicious advantage of me in my drunken and vulnerable state last night, I don't think you have any right to say no."

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**Lia's Avant-Garde Challenge**

You never thought there'd come a time when you were forced (okay-given the option) to write something _unconventional_. Well, my dears, that time is nigh. And before you get your knickers in a twist, I assure you that this challenge is not nearly as daunting as it looks. All I want you to do is write something that you have never written before.

'What do you mean?' you ask.

I mean, try something new-something different from what you normally write. Be daring. Stray from (your) conventional mould. Do you always write fluff? Try your hand at angst. Do you ordinarily focus on Draco? Well, throw the spotlight on Ginny this time. Have you never written in the first person? Start now. See? Not so bad. If you want to write something completely 'out there', do that too.

All I ask is that you be creative and follow the **simple rules** below:

1. It must be D/G oriented.

2. It must have a T-M rating.

3. You must use _at least _one of the following phrases in your story: _'there's something about your eyes', 'we're all born innocent', _or _'you're a beautiful, f *** k e d up man' _(replace 'man' with 'woman' or 'girl' if you wish to address the other gender).

4. It must be 1,000 words in length, minimum (this is _not _including author notes).

5. It must be beta'd.

6. You must post it on FIA _as well as_ FFN-it's time to get over your fears, ladies (just be glad that I'm not making you submit to MNFF).


	2. Chapter 2

_July 14, 2010  
Notes: Thanks to Iridescent-Dreamer for looking over this chapter for me. Reviews appreciated!  


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Chapter 2

"You did _what_?" Pansy Parkinson verily shrieked, setting her Gillywater down without taking a sip.

Draco smirked and took a drink from his mug—something non-alcoholic this time, as he was a little put out by how alcohol had treated him the last time he'd partaken of it. "I told her the only way to get back at Potter is to make him think she doesn't care. Get a new bloke, one that Potter doesn't get along well with at all, and start dating him in a very public fashion immediately."

Normally Pansy would avoid talking about personal business in the middle of the Three Broomsticks. The press had a way of following her around, eavesdropping on conversations, and snapping photographs of innocent scenes, consequently weaving inane and fictitious tales about her for the next issue of the _Daily Prophet_. The pub was rather empty today though, for a Saturday evening anyway, and Draco had dropped this bombshell on her before she'd had a chance to suggest they go somewhere more private.

"You meant yourself," she said, her disbelief evident in her expression, even though she didn't doubt her words.

"Of course. I'd be the perfect man for the job."

Pansy stared at him in astonishment, a little awed by his daring.

"Why would she ever agree to that? I highly doubt she's been harboring a secret love for you since our days at Hogwarts."

"Hasn't everybody?"

Pansy smiled. "Of course, Draco. Every girl, boy, and teacher wanted to get in your pants."

"It's not very hard, you know," he replied smugly.

"Yes, _right now_ it's not." Pansy smirked, but if she had been hoping to embarrass her longtime friend, she would be very disappointed.

"We can easily rectify that though." His smile then was more like a leer, but she knew not to take him seriously. He had long ago rebuffed her advances, and she knew that no matter how much he teased her, he didn't want to be with her the way she had wanted to be with him.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't want anything to do with your rectum, or any other part of your body, for that matter. Just answer my question. Why would Weasley ever agree to that?"

"Oh, she had to agree or I was going to let someone know how she had kidnapped me while unconscious, took me to her flat, and pleasured herself with my body without my consent. I still hadn't decided between tipping off someone at the Ministry or someone at the _Prophet_."

"That's blackmail," Pansy said.

"I know," he replied shamelessly.

"So she bought that? She let you blackmail her?"

"She was furious about it—no doubt about that—but to save her precious, spotless reputation? Of course she went along with it."

They were silent for several moments as Pansy sipped her drink and thought over what Draco had said. He had changed since Hogwarts. He used to turn down every girl that offered herself to him, seemingly disgusted by the way they threw themselves at the closest thing with a dick. Well, a dick and money. She wasn't sure if the war had changed him, or if Azkaban had, but now Draco was just as slutty as the slutty girls he dated. He had turned into an animal—a drinking, partying, sexing animal.

"What do you get out of this deal?" Pansy asked.

Draco's self-satisfied smile faltered for just a moment. "Me? I get sex whenever I want, don't I? No, I get _whatever_ I want. That's how blackmail works, see?"

Despicable. Pansy had never been gladder to be unassociated with Draco beyond just being friends (though the _Prophet_ did try to say otherwise, with the eavesdropping and photograph-taking). She as a businesswoman would not be taken seriously with a boyfriend as wild as Draco Malfoy.

Despite the lazy smile on his face and those hooded eyes of his, Pansy didn't quite buy his explanation. He had to get something else out of this deal with Weasley. His side of it was just too... flimsy. All of it was flimsy. Why would Weasley accept being blackmailed? Pansy thought she'd had more fighting spirit or something. She had at Hogwarts, anyway. The whole deal was tenuous at best, and she thought Draco was depending too much on the blackmail to get the sex. It just didn't even out.

But Pansy wasn't going to say anything. Sometimes the most fun to be had with friends was watching them fall. Draco didn't even need a little push from her. In her opinion, he'd well and truly tripped on his own, and Pansy would be glad to point and laugh at him when he finally hit the ground.

So maybe she still had hard feelings over his rejection, but really friendship between Slytherins just worked like that. Disappointing as it might have been, people were only as good as their usefulness. Pansy knew that.

"This leads me to this meeting I've called," Draco announced.

"Ah. The catch." She set her drink down and put on her business face, a small part of her missing the days before the war and before he'd gone to Azkaban, when they'd been able to drink butterbeer on a Hogsmeade weekend without ultimatums and "favors". Childish thinking. She'd learned since entering the business world that you never got something for nothing, and people were willing to exploit whoever they could just for that something.

"Your fashion show is this weekend, correct?"

Pansy seethed inside. Of course it was this weekend; she'd only been reminding him for weeks.

"What about it?" It annoyed her that she let her annoyance sound through. Draco loved knowing he was getting on people's nerves.

He looked towards the bar at Rosmerta cleaning a glass and joking with a customer, and said in an offhand manner, "I've always wanted to date a model."

Suddenly Pansy understood. To say she was a little dismayed would be an understatement, but she was determined to not leave this meeting without something in return.

* * *

Ginny did her best to eat her sandwich while holding up her book, but she was having difficulty all around. Lettuce and tomato fell out between her fingers, and she was having a hard time turning pages, but if that wasn't bad enough, she really couldn't concentrate to read the damn book at all. Ever since she'd arrived at work that morning, she had felt like eyes were watching her all the time. And now, in the Ministry cafeteria, she couldn't hide from the other employees like she could in her cubicle.

They all knew. She was certain of it. They were probably wondering what kind of horrible person Ginny was to scare off Harry Potter. Even though she was doing her best to avoid meeting anyone's stare, she could _feel_ them judging her, as if they were shooting What-a-Bitch rays at her from their eyes.

Or maybe they knew about her arrangement with Malfoy. Maybe they knew she'd slept with him. Maybe they thought Harry had left her because she had cheated on him first. She lowered the book enough to peek over the top and scanned around the lunch room for suspicious glares, the bite of sandwich she'd just taken turning to sand in her mouth. Suddenly she wanted to bolt from the room, back to her cubicle. Suddenly she wanted to call in sick and go home and hide in her bed.

Malfoy had left an imprint on her, and she was sure everyone could see it. Her skin must have screamed "Whore! Whore! Whore!" even though she wasn't one. She'd been faithful to Harry. So, so faithful to him. The Malfoy thing had been an awful mistake, but one she couldn't easily correct. And she was being blackmailed! She certainly wasn't whoring herself out to the git for the fun of it.

Sandwich now inedible, Ginny lowered her lunch and her book to pack up and get back to work. But someone was standing in front of her table looking apprehensive and young, and Ginny didn't think she could ignore her.

"Hello, Ginny," the girl said nervously.

Ginny, feeling like she'd just been caught doing something silly, plastered a too-bright smile on her face.

"Oh, hello, Astoria!"

Astoria. Damnit. Ginny couldn't eat her lunch in peace? She couldn't run back to her cubicle without being confronted by her ex-boyfriend's mistress? Remembering just who was standing in front of her, Ginny wondered why she was putting forth so much effort. This woman did not deserve to be smiled at by her! Ginny should have lunged over the table and started ripping her eyes out, goddamnit!

Astoria had smiled tentatively at being greeted with such a happy smile, but when Ginny's expression fell into a scowl, she visibly gulped and lost her hesitant grin as well.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said.

Ginny glared up at her. 'Fuck off' was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. There was something about Astoria's little chin and rosy cheeks and her full bottom lip that made you want to take her home, dress her like a doll, and squeeze her until she peed. Her hair fell in pretty curls, in nearly complete ringlets that Ginny was jealous of, though she didn't showcase them much as she always had her shiny blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. It went with the job, Ginny supposed. You couldn't really chase dark wizards with hair blowing in your face, now could you?

Ginny motioned for Astoria to take a seat across from her. Why? Why had her hand done that? Why was she subjecting herself to this?

As Ginny glared at her unoffending sandwich, Astoria said, "Look, I know I have no right to speak to you, and you certainly have the right to ignore me, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened."

Ginny's head snapped up. She was sorry? _Sorry?_ Well, if she was so fucking _sorry_ she should give Harry back! Or maybe she should have never stolen him from her in the first place!

"We—I never meant to fall in love with him. I tried not to. I knew it was wrong, and I shouldn't have encouraged him when—"

By then, Ginny had had all she could take. She stood from the table and grabbed her half-eaten sandwich and book, intending to walk out of the cafeteria before Astoria was devastated by a bomb of 'fuck you's and a melee of sharp fingernails.

But Astoria grabbed her hand before Ginny could pass, and looked up at her with sad doll eyes. "Honestly, if Harry was so easy to steal away, why would you want him back? You want someone who is completely devoted to _you_, don't you? Or was it just his fame that attracted you this whole time?"

Ginny stared down at the other witch, her mouth slack in gobsmacked shock. She had underestimated Astoria Greengrass. She may have looked like a doll, but she was as fake as one as well, it seemed. Then fury took a hold of Ginny's heart and forcefully grasped her tongue. How _dare_ this girl say that Ginny had only been with Harry for his fame! As if their relationship had meant nothing to her at all!

Ginny snatched her hand out of Astoria's grasp, and it took all the strength she had not to slap the innocent look off her face. She wondered how she could have possibly been Sorted into Hufflepuff, when her older sister had been more appropriately placed in Slytherin.

She managed to cool the fire of her anger before she said something she would regret. Not that she would regret hurting Astoria's feelings—much—but they were still in a public place, and she was still convinced that the general public assumed that Ginny had been in the wrong when it came to Harry's infidelity. She certainly didn't need to be seen harassing poor little Astoria, whose only crime had been picking up the pieces of Harry Ginny had left behind.

"Just remember that what he did to me, he could also do to you," she seethed.

"Unlikely. He was never meant to be with _you_." Astoria smirked. Ginny bristled at the emphasis on 'you', as if Harry had always been meant for Astoria, and took a deep breath, concentrating on the goal of keeping her job. Her hands clenched into fists, but they stayed by her sides.

Grimacing, she left the cafeteria without a look back, too distressed to notice the whispering people she'd left behind.

* * *

_It had been weeks since Ginny had last seen him smile. A real smile. Lately he answered her joking with half-hearted attempts at humor and a grin that looked painful more than amused. She had wondered to herself what might be wrong, but had been too afraid to confront him about it, too afraid to find out the answer. Did he know something she didn't? Something about Ron? Something about them? Was it work, which he wasn't supposed to talk to her about anyway?_

_She pulled a chicken pot pie out of the oven and placed it on the table, getting lost in her thoughts as she watched the steam rise over it. If he was going to ask her to marry him, she would have thought he'd be happier, but he moped around as if someone had died._

"_Ginny, can I talk to you?"_

_She startled and turned, a smile coming to her face until she saw the determined look on his._

"_Supper's ready."_

_He looked about to object, like he wanted to put dinner off for a while, but seemed to think better of it, sitting down at the table instead. Even after Ginny gave him a helping, he continued to frown at his plate, picking at the crust of the pie with a fork._

_When he put the fork down and looked up at her, Ginny's stomach dropped._

"_This isn't working," he said._

"_What's not?"_

_He was silent for several long moments, staring at her with an intent and searching gaze. He sighed. Ginny's heart thumped loudly in her chest._

"_You don't feel it? That we're not working?"_

_Panic. That's what she was feeling. Where was this coming from?_

"_What did I do?" she asked, her grip tightening on her fork._

"_No—you didn't do anything. Don't you see that it's not the same? Hasn't been the same?"_

"_Since when? When did it go wrong?" She searched her mind, trying to remember when Harry had stopped smiling, when it had gotten so much harder to make him happy. She couldn't pinpoint a single date. It seemed like she had always fought to make him laugh._

_She couldn't even remember the last time they'd had sex. His birthday eight months ago? Christmas?_

"_Is there someone else?"_

_He didn't even seem startled by the question. His face was straight and serious._

"_Yes."_

_Ginny didn't know how to feel. The panic disappeared and her eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. She was having a hard time believing this was happening. It couldn't be true._

"_Who?" she asked, part of her preferring not knowing._

"_Astoria."_

_She looked up. "Your partner?"_

"_Yes." _

_He never met her eyes. He looked everywhere but at her._

_It made sense though. Astoria had trained under Harry when she'd joined the Aurors three years ago, and after her training, they'd been made partners._

_That's all Ginny could think about: the number of years she'd been with Harry, and how he was throwing it all away. Almost four years, not including the time they'd been together before the war had ended._

"_I'm sorry," he said. And he looked it. His eyes sparkled as if he wanted to cry as well, but the sight of those tears just made Ginny angry. "I never meant to fall in love with her. I never wanted to hurt you, but... I've realized that you are more like a sister to me."_

_She laughed, harshly and cruelly. "I know you've never had any siblings, Harry, but people don't go around fucking their sisters."_

_Harry jumped as if frightened, thrown off by her words and her tone. He'd never heard her curse like that before, in all the time that he'd known her._

"_So that's it, then?" she asked. She kept a close reign on her voice lest she began to shout, which she wanted to do. She wanted to scream at him, to rage, to call him a fucking horrible person and to call Astoria a goddamn whore._

_Because she could, because she knew he didn't like to hear that kind of language, and because she knew it would piss him off._

"_I'm sorry I couldn't finish dinner," he replied as he stood from the table. "I'm sorry," he repeated when he reached the doorway to the living room, his eyes disappointed but resolute._

_She didn't see him to the door._

_Instead of facing that uneaten supper, Ginny went to a pub. Her stomach had begun to hurt, like someone had ripped a hole in it, but there just wasn't enough alcohol in the world that could close it back up.

* * *

_

Ginny woke up angry and with tears in her eyes, but for several moments she couldn't remember from where the anger originated. When her dream came back to her, she groaned and climbed out of bed, reluctant to slip back into it. A look outside her bedroom window told her that it was much too early to be awake, and she had to suppress another groan. Work was going to be dreadful today. Thank you, bad dreams, lack of sleep, and Astoria Greengrass.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Ginny poured herself a glass of water and chugged away at it as if she'd been thirsty all her life. A pecking at her window caused her to choke and spill water all over the kitchen floor. In the darkness beyond the window she could just make out an owl, and if there was an owl being delivered to her at this time of the night—or morning, if that's your thing—Ginny just knew her day was going to get a whole lot worse before it officially began.

As she opened the window, the bird swooped inside, landing on her small dining room table and waiting in what Ginny could only describe as an impatient and imperious posture. The damn thing thought it was royalty, acting all regal like that. Ginny scowled at it as she removed the letter attached to its leg, and as if sensing her thoughts, it took a snap at her hand.

_Weasley,  
You are meeting me for tea on Wednesday. I'll come pick you up at your flat sometime around three. Why shouldn't you run and hide, you might be asking yourself? Because we'll be discussing our first date, which is this Saturday. Cancel all your plans._

The wanker hadn't even bothered to sign the damn note, and the whole commanding tone of it made Ginny bristle. She'd do what he wanted because she owed him that much after what she had done to him, but he could have been a little more polite about it.

Who was she kidding? The man had blackmailed her quite shamelessly. Of course he didn't know how to be polite.

Ginny responded with a terse _Fine_, sending the owl back on its merry way. She contemplated the note as the bird retreated into the darkness, and suddenly wondered what Malfoy was getting from blackmailing her. He hadn't asked for anything in return, really, just forced her to date him, and she highly doubted it had been a longtime wish of his to do so.

As the sun finally began to peek over the horizon, Ginny's thoughts drifted from Malfoy to Harry. The thought of his face when he found out she was dating Draco Malfoy was the only ray of light able to pierce through the clouds hovering over this horrible day she was already dreading. Somehow, revenge made it seem a little less awful.

She smiled at the sun rise.


End file.
